


if i profane

by Waywarder



Series: Ineffable Shakespeare, or: The Other Arrangement [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale/Crowley First Kiss (Good Omens), First Kiss, Romeo and Juliet References, Shakespeare Quotations, Using Shakespeare As An Excuse to Make Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22811080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywarder/pseuds/Waywarder
Summary: “I think I’d like to be in a play someday,” Aziraphale pivoted. “Oh, it must be absolutely thrilling.”“How’s that?”“Oh, I don’t pretend to really know,” Aziraphale went on, brightening a little. “But I imagine that it must feel quite freeing to lose oneself in a character. To get to live inside romantic, beautiful stories, if only for a moment. To simply do whatever the poetry tells you to do.”And a positively terrible idea crept into Crowley’s head.After their sixth showing ofRomeo & Juliet, Aziraphale and Crowley drink and argue about the play and, eventually, Crowley comes up with an idea.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Shakespeare, or: The Other Arrangement [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1711726
Comments: 30
Kudos: 171





	if i profane

_London, 1595_

They were always the last two to leave the tavern.

Aziraphale and Crowley sat on opposite sides of a wooden table, drinking ale and arguing. 

“It’s _romantic,_ ” Aziraphale insisted, hiccuping a little.

“Angel, it’s complete nonsense,” Crowley groaned. “Coupla stupid bloody teenagers making bad decisions. Nothing romantic about it!”

It had been their sixth showing of _Romeo & Juliet._ Crowley, as you all well know, preferred the funny ones, so he didn’t terribly enjoy the play after Mercutio died, but… Well, it was worth sitting through for Aziraphale’s reactions. That soft, perfect bastard. The angel started sniffling at the lovers’ first meeting, sometimes even mouthing the lines along with the players. Satan, Crowley probably had the lines memorized himself at this point. 

Now, though, Aziraphale was quiet, gazing down into his tankard.

“‘S wrong, angel? It’s just a play,” Crowley leaned forward, raising an eyebrow.

“You really don’t think there’s anything romantic about two beings choosing to defy everything they’ve ever known… their families, their homes, their loyalties… for one another?”

 _Well, fuck me,_ Crowley wanted to discorporate on the spot.

He didn’t know what to say to that. It was stupid to pretend like he didn’t know what Aziraphale was getting at, but what was there to say? 

What would change anything? What would ever change anything?

“It’s just a play,” Crowley repeated, hating himself.

“I think I’d like to be in a play someday,” Aziraphale pivoted. “Oh, it must be absolutely thrilling.”

“How’s that?”

“Oh, I don’t pretend to really know,” Aziraphale went on, brightening a little. “But I imagine that it must feel quite freeing to lose oneself in a character. To get to live inside romantic, beautiful stories, if only for a moment. To simply do whatever the poetry tells you to do.”

And a positively terrible idea crept into Crowley’s head. 

Crowley downed the last of his ale, willing every last drop of proverbial liquid courage to flood his veins as quickly as possible. As he slammed the tankard back down on to the table with one hand, he lifted the other to snap his fingers. Suddenly, the human behind the bar remembered something terribly important that they needed to tend to down in the cellar. 

Crowley slipped off of his bench, only wobbling a little. He struck what he hoped was a ridiculous enough pose, and then:

“ _If I profane with my unworthiest hand,_ ” His voice was not his own. No, he spoke now with an over dramatic affectation to mask the sincerity boiling in his blood. 

The words tripped off his tongue so easily. 

Fuck.

“ _This holy shrine,_ ” Crowley reached out, and grasped Aziraphale’s hand, wringing a surprised gasp out of the angel. “ _The gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss._ ”

And then, doing everything in his actual demonic power to not drop any of his pretense, he lowered his lips to Aziraphale’s hand, and kissed it softly.

Aziraphale’s hand was soft and smooth and perfect, and Crowley lingered on it, hardly daring to lift his eyes. 

He heard a soft, trembling voice above him: “My dear, what are you doing?”

He kept his head down. “That’s not the line, angel, and you know it.”

“Crowley-”

“Aziraphale, we’re just acting,” Crowley murmured, fighting and likely failing to keep the plea out of his voice. “We’re _acting._ So, it’s okay.”

This time Crowley heard a sharp inhalation, followed by a careful, steady exhale. Crowley knew that shift in breath. Aziraphale was thinking, deciding... something. Crowley heard fabric rustle against wood: Aziraphale abandoning his own bench. 

A soft, smooth, perfect hand found Crowley’s cheek, and gently lifted it upwards. Crowley found himself staring into wide, frightened, determined blue eyes.

“ _Good pilgrim,_ ” Aziraphale’s voice shared none of Crowley’s affectation. The worry in his eyes did not match the steady confidence in his speech. “ _You do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, And palm to palm-_ ”

And Aziraphale did so, bringing his hand up to Crowley’s. For a moment, they just looked at their hands. Crowley fought the urge to twine his fingers through Aziraphale’s, and use the tighter grip to pull him closer. 

But none of that was in the script.

“ _Is holy palmers’ kiss._ ” 

“ _Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?_ ” His own voice this time, Crowley noticed. They were in this together now, there was no point in hiding. 

“ _Ay, pilgrim,_ ” Aziraphale said, smiling shyly just a little. (“ _Of course_ you’d be an excellent ingenue, angel,” Crowley thought.) “ _Lips that they must use in prayer._ ”

Crowley grinned back. This next part came easier to him: “ _O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair._ ”

He had begun to move without realizing it. With their hands still pressed together, Crowley had stepped in closer to Aziraphale, and the angel’s back collided with a table. Aziraphale stumbled, and Crowley reached out, bringing his free arm around his waist to steady him.

Aziraphale looked up into Crowley’s eyes, his face flushed.

“ _Saints do not move,_ ” Aziraphale breathed. “ _Though grant for prayers’ sake._ ”

Crowley’s fingers stroked the small of Aziraphale’s back as he recited, “ _Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take._ ”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Was this where one of them laughed it all off? Was this where one of them recoiled in disgust? Was this The Line they still dared not cross?

And then Aziraphale, stubborn and drunk and wonderful, twined his fingers quite firmly through Crowley’s. 

That, Crowley knew, was his cue.

So, he leaned forward, and pressed his mouth softly to Aziraphale’s. A soft, little, broken sound escaped Aziraphale as they kissed, and Crowley shut his eyes more tightly than he’d ever shut them in his life, unwilling to accept that maybe he’d been wrong, maybe this had been bad for Aziraphale, maybe this nonsense would hurt him, maybe maybe maybe…

Crowley went to pull away, “ _Thus from your lips-_ ”

“Give me my sin again,” gasped Aziraphale, yanking Crowley back to him. Their lips crashed together, and Aziraphale unwound their fingers, so that he could bring both his hands up to cup Crowley’s face, and, for his part, Crowley welcomed his newly free fingers, now finding their way into Aziraphale’s curls.

They kissed and kissed, and Aziraphale made more noises that set Crowley’s nerves on fire, and Crowley, nearbly unable to cope, finally slipped his tongue into the angel’s mouth, and they just kept on kissing. 

They kissed well into the night. Sometimes it was needy and desperate, and they pressed their bodies tightly against one another, fingers raking over backs and shoulders and through hair. Sometimes they drew back a little, and the kisses were softer and slower and deeper, and Aziraphale dared to bring his hands to rest on Crowley’s chest, and Crowley held Aziraphale by the waist, and they swayed as if they were dancing. 

Alas:

The sound of birdsong from outside startled Crowley. He opened his eyes, his lips and hands still on Aziraphale, and…

It was morning.

Crowley pulled his face back from Aziraphale’s, and his heart lurched to see that there were now tears shining in the angel’s eyes.

“ _Wilt thou be gone?_ ” Aziraphale whispered, fingers coming up to stroke Crowley’s cheek. “ _It is not yet near day._ ”

“I don’t remember what comes next, angel,” Crowley apologized, just as quietly. 

Aziraphale leaned his forehead against Crowley’s and smiled, sadly. “Then I suppose the show is over, isn’t it?”

“Aziraphale, I-”

Aziraphale kissed Crowley again.

“I win, you know,” Aziraphale stepped out of Crowley’s embrace, straightening his doublet. 

Crowley just stood there, mourning the loss of Aziraphale against him. So, Aziraphale continued: 

“It was awfully romantic, wasn’t it?”

Crowley could only nod dumbly. Aziraphale smiled at him, illuminated by the morning light now streaming through the tavern windows. As the angel turned to make his way toward the door, one last line drifted into Crowley’s head, and he found his voice again. 

“ _My bounty is as boundless as the sea,_ ” Crowley called out. Aziraphale froze. “ _My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite._ ”

Aziraphale turned back around, and moved to Crowley. Crowley braced himself, hoping against hope, for more kissing, but instead Aziraphale just took one of Crowley’s hands. Aziraphale tugged on Crowley’s hand gently, shifting the demon into position, facing the sunny windows.

“What’re you doing, angel?”

“Take a bow, my dear,” Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand. “You were marvelous.”

So, the angel and the demon looked toward the sunshine, and, grasping one another’s hands, bowed deeply. In their minds, there must have been a standing ovation for them, so when they came back up, they turned to each other, smiling fondly, and wordlessly agreed to take a second bow. 

The curtain falls.

**Author's Note:**

> BACK ON MY NONSENSE. Thanks for reading, friends!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] If I Profane](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24766672) by [SkyAsimaru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyAsimaru/pseuds/SkyAsimaru)




End file.
